Christmas at the Manor
by chasingriver
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock spend a quiet moment away from the madness of the annual holiday party. (Set three and a half years after Headmaster.)


**Warnings**: sibling incest

**Beta**: deklava

**A/N**: Set three and a half years after Headmaster.

Written as a birthday present for deathbygatiss.

* * *

Mycroft wandered through the throng of elegantly-dressed guests feigning a casual demeanour he didn't remotely feel. He'd only just got in from London - barely enough time to change into his tuxedo. He scanned the room eagerly for any sign of Sherlock - the chance to see his brother being the only saving grace of this annual Christmas debacle.

He spied Mummy through the crowd, surrounded by a small island of hangers-on. They parted somewhat as he approached.

"Mycroft, dear. How lovely to see you! How was your trip down?"

"Fine, Mummy, thank you." He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. "You're looking well."

"As are you. Are they treating you well at work?"

"Yes, thank you," he replied, tempted to keep searching for Sherlock, but Mummy was still as sharp as a hawk and she'd notice. "The decorations are lovely this year. It looks like everyone is having a wonderful time."

Mummy smiled distractedly in reply, already turning back towards one of her friends.

He supposed he could just ask. "Was Sherlock able to make it back today?"

"Mm, he's around here somewhere. Lovely to see you, dear." The abrupt, impersonal dismissal didn't bother him; he and his brother were barely closer to her than any of her party guests. Her small island of acolytes closed ranks and he walked away, thankful that the encounter had been over so quickly.

He eventually found Sherlock upstairs on the stone balcony of one of the guest bedrooms, smoking a cigarette in the cold night air.

"Evening, brother."

"Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock said without turning to face him. "I wondered when you'd arrive." He fished in his tuxedo for a cigarette case. "Want one?"

"I don't smoke."

"Neither do I," Sherlock replied, and turned to look at him with a small smile. "But you try surviving one of these things without one."

Mycroft grinned and took one. Sherlock lit it with his own.

"How's Cambridge?"

"Really, Mycroft? You haven't seen me in three months and you want to talk about school?" Sherlock sounded slightly hurt.

"No, not particularly." He wanted to reach out and touch him. If Sherlock pulled away, he'd have the answer he needed, but he kept his distance and took a long drag on his cigarette instead.

"There isn't," Sherlock said, answering the question Mycroft hadn't asked.

"Really?"

"You can be horribly insecure, Mycroft."

"Only concerning this, I assure you."

"What is it? Five years now? Almost four since you acknowledged it. My feelings haven't changed. Have yours?"

"You know they haven't," Mycroft replied softly, and placed his hand on the small of Sherlock's back.

They stood there, silently, as they finished their cigarettes.

"What will you do when you finish university?"

"Move in with you."

Sherlock tried to sound casual and decisive, but the barest hint of a question in his words betrayed him.

Mycroft smiled to himself. Of course Sherlock wouldn't _ask. _Not overtly.

"Of course," Mycroft replied. "The flat is large enough, and the extra bedroom should be adequate to keep up appearances. It's not as if I have a lot of visitors."

Sherlock turned around with a concerned look on his face. "Aren't you worried about your job? What if someone finds out?"

"I'll be sharing a flat with my brother; I don't think most people will give it a second thought. What about you? Do you have any plans for work?"

"No. I'm sure I'll sort something out."

"Mm. Then I'll be sharing a flat with my out-of-work brother. It's the perfect cover," Mycroft said playfully.

Sherlock laughed and hit him. Then he dropped his unfinished cigarette and threw his arms around Mycroft's neck. "God, it's good to see you," he said, just before he kissed him.

"You too," he eventually replied after they'd finished their kiss.

"Come on, it's bloody cold out here. Let's go inside."

"Mm," Mycroft agreed, "and you can tell me what horrors you've unleashed on the Cambridge dons."

"I'm frozen. Can we go to your bedroom and talk there?" he asked with a devilish grin.

"If you insist," Mycroft replied, slipping his hand underneath Sherlock's waistcoat and pulling him in for another quick kiss.

Perhaps Christmas wasn't so bad after all.


End file.
